Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Go on.”

  He grimaced. “’Twould be easier to speak if I didn’t have a blade at my throat.”

  Deirdre left her sword point where it was.

  He sighed. “Very well. Know this, Deirdre. I will never turn my knights over to your command. I’ve led them to victory too many times to hand them over to a lass with no battle experience.” He glanced pointedly down at her blade. “No matter how many swords she owns. Furthermore, since we need to combine our forces, I can’t allow you to continue training the men of Rivenloch.”

  “What!” she said, poking him accidentally with the blade.

  He grimaced. “Ah!”

  “Sorry,” she muttered.

  He glared as if he didn’t believe her. “An army can’t follow two leaders. You know that. I also think you’re wise enough to know that pride should never get in the way of common sense. The simple truth is that I’m more experienced. I am the better commander.”

  A surge of indignation rose in her, and her fist tightened around the pommel of her sword. “How dare you assume that? How dare you assume that because I’m a Scot and a woman and a…a few inches shorter, I cannot manage an army as well as you? ’Tis an insult, sirrah.”

  “’Tis no insult,” he said softly. “’Tis fact. And you know I’m right.”

  She scowled. Curse his Norman hide, she didn’t want him to be right.

  “You’ve never seen battle, have you?”

  She compressed her lips.

  “Have you?” he prodded.

  “Nay,” she admitted.

  “Nor have most of your men.”

  She raised her chin proudly. “My father spent his youth soldiering about the Borders.”

  “That was long ago. There have been new weapons developed since then, new defenses, new strategies.”

  She smirked. “And I suppose you know all about them.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve done nothing for the past seven years but command an army.”

  Damn him, she thought, chewing pensively at her lip. He was right. Sometimes her own infallible sense of logic, her grasp of reason, and her stubborn pragmatism were a frustration to her.

  Still, Pagan offered her nothing. He only told her what he intended to take away from her.

  “What is your proposal then?” she asked bitterly. “That I crawl off somewhere and disappear, leaving you to your command?”

  “Nay.” He frowned as her sword point jabbed him again. “Damn it, Deirdre. Will you not put away your blade?”

  She moved it back a fraction of an inch. “Speak.”

  “My proposal is this. I’ve already ordered the men not to spar with you, and I’ll not withdraw that order. But I will make an exception in exchange for something I want.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ll allow you to fight,” he said. “But only with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Only with me.”

  Deirdre was astonished. Given how arrogant he was about his own skills, why would Pagan want to waste his time with someone he considered an inferior fighter? On the other hand, if she sparred with him, she could learn his weaknesses, which might prove useful one day. “What is it you want in exchange?” She expected it would be appreciable. The immediate return of Colin perhaps? A large sum of silver for his new construction? Full command of her father’s household?

  “One kiss each day.”

  She looked at him blankly. Maybe she’d heard wrong. “One kiss.”

  “Aye,” he said, completely serious. “One kiss each day. At the time and place of my choosing.”

  She smirked. He must be addled. One kiss was nothing. She’d dreaded far more from the man who claimed her as wife. And the time and place of his choosing? Pah! What did it matter? He’d already kissed her in the chapel in full view of all Rivenloch. The stable? The kitchens? The great hall? It was no matter to her.

  But the skeptical part of her experienced a moment of doubt. Surely such a simple display of affection couldn’t mean so much to him. “One kiss?”

  “Aye.”

  “And ’tis all?”

  “Aye.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She might regret it later, but his offer was too tempting to ignore. “Done.” She lowered her sword.

  “Beginning tonight,” he said.

  “Beginning tonight.”

  Then he gave her a sly smile that sent a shiver of misgiving along her spine and made her wonder if she’d just stepped into the wolf’s lair. “I will count the hours, my lady.”

  She silently wondered if he could count. Most men of war had more brawn than brains. Yet she’d already seen Pagan read. There was definitely more to him than muscles and girth.

  With a flourish of farewell, he started toward the doorway. Eyeing the wreckage, he said, “I’ll send a man up to make repairs.”

  “Wait.” She hated that Pagan had seen her weeping. “If you tell a soul that I was…that I…”

  He sniffed. “Your secret is safe. On one condition.” He picked up the axe and slung it over his shoulder, pinning her with a purposeful gaze. “Never. Never bar the door against me again.”

  Deirdre suspected Pagan was speaking of more than just the chamber door, the oak and iron and leather he’d demolished with a single blow. Nay, he meant the door to her heart as well.

  She realized that he could shatter that as easily as the wood. Not that he’d have to. The residual hitch in her chest reminded her that for the second time, he’d witnessed her loss of control. Curse her frail feminine emotions, she’d probably given Pagan the key to the damned door.

  By the time Pagan left and sent the carpenter up with planks and new leather hinges, Deirdre had changed out of her armor and into a soft brown kirtle, and her composure was restored. She left the workman to his toil and went to seek out Miriel. There were things to see to, she told herself, besides the castle’s defenses. Something had to be done soon about Lord Gellir’s wagering. According to Miriel, last night their father had suffered enormous losses to the Cameliard knights.

  But when Deirdre confronted Miriel, she discovered that her sister, a paragon of efficiency, had already spoken to the men. Indeed, Miriel volunteered that perhaps Normans weren’t quite as barbaric as Deirdre imagined, for the knights seemed chivalrous enough about the whole affair, returning their winnings with good-natured humor to restore the coffers, all but Lyon, who had wandered into the forest and been robbed by The Shadow. Still, Deirdre suspected their cooperation had more to do with Miriel’s sweet nature and beautiful countenance than it did chivalry.

  Eventually, despite her determination to keep busy with other things, Deirdre found herself drawn, out of curiosity, back to the tiltyard. She managed to avoid notice, standing in the shade of the kennels. From there, she watched as Pagan put her men through rigorous drills, tossing cloth bags of chain mail back and forth until they could barely lift their arms. Meanwhile, his knights took turns riding at the quintain, sending it spinning so hard, she thought it would fly off the post. After that, he lined all the knights up in a row and made them stand up straight, whacking them with the flat of his blade if they stooped so much as an inch. Then he had them practice lunges, not a few dozen, as Deirdre did to warm them up, but a hundred. In full armor.

  She furrowed her brows in disapproval. Her men would hate Pagan by the end of the day, she was sure. He tortured them, making them work so hard their limbs trembled. What use would they be, she wondered, if their legs turned to custard and they couldn’t lift food to their mouths? Nay, this was no way to establish a cohesive fighting force. This kind of punishment would make the Scots bitter and mutinous.

  She bit her lip, itching to intervene, to put an end to Pagan’s abuse as he challenged her knights to grapple with him, hand to hand. One by one they accepted his challenge, and one by one they were overthrown by his brute strength, tossed into the dust like discarded offal. It was a travesty the way he humiliated them. She shook her head. By nightfall, Paga
n had better watch his back or he’d end up with a knife in it from one of her resentful men.

  As she watched Pagan bowl over young Kenneth, the smallest of her knights, wrestling him to the ground as easily as a pup, her instincts took over. She couldn’t stand idly by in the face of such brutal tyranny. She pushed off the wall of the kennel, intent on repairing his damage.

  But before she’d even emerged from the shadows, she froze in her tracks, stunned by the sight before her. Pagan, laughing in triumph, hopped to his feet. He helped the fallen Kenneth rise and ruffled the lad’s hair. And to Deirdre’s shock, Kenneth was grinning from ear to ear. Indeed, all of her men were chuckling. Despite bloodied noses and blacked eyes, their faces were wreathed with tired smiles.

  Where was their rage? Where was their shame? They’d just spent hours being battered, beaten, and bruised. They’d all been bested, soundly and singlehandedly, by a Norman. Why were they not boiling with indignation?

  She slumped back against the wall, bewildered. How had he done it? How had Pagan managed to mistreat them so callously and yet earn not only their respect, but their obvious adoration? That was what shone in Kenneth’s eyes. The lad clearly adored Pagan. It seemed all the men did.

  She sighed in wonder. Maybe she’d never understand men. It was as if by conquering their bodies, Pagan had somehow won their hearts.

  She stared pensively at the ground, mulling that idea over in her mind. Then she glanced up at the handsome Norman with his broad shoulders and unruly hair, his sparkling eyes and flashing teeth. Perhaps, she thought with a shudder, it was the same tactic he planned to use with her.

  All evening, Deirdre felt as edgy as a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce, speculating upon when Pagan would claim his kiss. While he sat beside her at supper, joking with her men, she picked at her trencher, wondering if he might do it in this very public place.

  But he didn’t.

  Nor did he approach her when Boniface strummed upon a lute and sang a bawdy lay about a man with three wives.

  When her father started up a game of dice with Sir Warin, who gave Miriel a conspiratorial wink before he began wagering, Pagan made no move to draw her into his arms and claim his kiss then either.

  He must have forgotten her, she decided. It was entirely probable, given how attentive the maidservants were this eve, refilling his cup every time he took a sip and gushing over his impressive appetite. Their attentions likely made him go hard in his trews and soft in his head.

  But when a Norman serving wench splashed ale onto Pagan’s lap, then made a great show of wiping it up, Deirdre decided she’d had enough. She tossed her napkin onto the table and excused herself. Pagan might choose to act like an adulterous half-wit, but she had no intention of lingering about to witness his idiocy.

  She stormed up the stairs, silently cursing men for rutting fools at every step. Never noticing she was being shadowed, she pushed her way in through her newly repaired chamber door. When she turned to slam the door shut, a broad hand caught it.

  Pagan. She gasped in alarm.

  He opened the door wider and entered the room. “Reflexes like a cat,” he teased.

  Her heart in her throat, she still managed to quip, “Lest you forget, cats have claws.”

  “Lest you forget,” he said, securing the door behind him, “I know how to make cats purr.”

  A blush bloomed unbidden in her face.

  “Did you forget our bargain?” he asked, advancing on her, lifting his hand to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

  She flinched in reflex.

  He lifted her chin with his knuckle, studying her face. “You left in a rush.”

  “You seemed…” She pulled her chin away. “Distracted.”

  “Did I?” A glint of humor livened his eyes.

  Despite her irritation with him, she felt her pulse pound as he gazed at her. All afternoon she’d braced herself for this moment, as if it was a pending joust. All afternoon she’d reminded herself it was only a kiss, after all. She could be stoic for one kiss. She’d simply think of something else—sword fighting or her horse or the loyal knights of Rivenloch—while he took his due.

  But she’d expected him to make a public display of his affection, to flaunt her subordination to him with a kiss. Never had she imagined he’d want her alone.

  She swallowed hard. Now they stood but a hand’s width apart. His green eyes shone, calm and knowing and superior. One corner of his mouth curved up with sly intent. And now she remembered the power of his temptation. Or at least her body remembered. Her heart fluttered like a caged moth, her breath grew rapid, and blood warmed her cheeks.

  Damn his eyes! She couldn’t let him rattle her. She needed to be indifferent, dispassionate. She had to remember that this transaction was no more than a simple trade arrangement, no different than their marriage itself. But despite her best efforts, her voice came out on a broken whisper. “This is the place of your choosing? Our bedchamber?”

  He only smiled that maddeningly devious smile and let his gaze roam over her body. Everywhere it lit, her skin tingled, as if longing for more than just his perusal.

  Then he reached up to the neckline of her gown, and before she could protest, dragged it down over her shoulder and lower, baring one breast.

  “This,” he murmured, “is the place of my choosing.”

  Chapter 17

  Deirdre’s eyes widened, and her jaw fell open. The knave had tricked her. “Nay.”

  His eyes misted with desire. “Oh, aye,” he purred.

  She shook her head, incredulous. “Nay.”

  “You gave your word,” he warned her.

  She closed her mouth again. He was right, damn him. The varlet might have been devilishly clever, trapping her with a turn of phrase, but she’d been foolish enough to agree to his terms. He’d said one kiss in the place of his choosing.

  She bit at the inside of her cheek. It was no matter, she told herself. A kiss was a kiss. She’d simply grit her teeth and endure his lechery.

  But as he lowered his sultry gaze to her bared bosom, parting his lips, her throat thickened. Sweet Mary, no one had kissed her…there before.

  “One kiss,” he whispered, reaching out to run his thumb audaciously, tantalizingly along the underside of her breast.

  Her eyelids dipped as a wave of unwelcome desire washed over her.

  “So soft,” he sighed, stroking her bared flesh with the back of his knuckles. “So warm.”

  Against her wishes, her body responded, melting, tensing, aching. Her eyes drifted completely closed. It would be over in a moment, she told herself. Surely she could resist his seduction for that small sliver of time.

  But she was wrong.

  As he cupped her breast, hefting its weight in his palm, he eased forward, grazing her cheek with his, and spoke softly against her ear. “So beautiful. Like a sweet…ripe…peach.”

  She caught her lip beneath her teeth as his words wound their way through her thoughts, drawing her in like a sorcerer’s incantation.

  With a hand at her back, he nudged her hips toward his, pressing the stone-hard manifestation of his lust against her belly.

  “Feel how I hunger for you,” he murmured.

  His warm breath made the skin of her neck shiver, and as his fingertips danced lightly over the sensitive flesh of her breast, she felt her knees tremble beneath her.

  “Shall I take my due now?” he breathed.

  She shut her eyes tighter and bit out, “Aye.”

  But he was unsatisfied with her response. “You’re afraid.”

  “Nay.” But she refused to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see the naked lust in his leer, the smug curve of his smile.

  “Then look at me.”

  She drew in a deep breath. The Warrior Maid of Rivenloch was no coward. She’d looked death in the eye. She could endure the countenance of one paltry Norman husband. She forced her eyes open.

  And was astonished.

  Pagan was not s
miling. Nor was the glaze over his eyes as self-assured as she expected. Indeed, he looked almost…helpless, as if he, too, was caught up in the current between them…against his will.

  As she watched, she saw him swallow hard, saw a muscle in his jaw tense, as if he suffered under the utmost restraint. Then he muttered, as if to remind himself, “One kiss. No more.”

  He dipped his head, and she quivered as his hair swept over her shoulder, then lower, lower, until she felt the moist air from his mouth graze her skin. All the while her nipple tightened in anticipation, and she held her breath, dreading yet desiring what was to come. The tension was unbearable.

  And then his mouth closed, hot and wet and tender, upon her. She dragged in a ragged breath at the sensation. His kiss was soft at first as his lips gently surrounded her, bathing her flesh with his tongue. She fought against the powerful pleasure, choking off the rapturous moan that rose in her throat. Then he increased the pressure, drawing her deeply between his lips. Lightning seemed to streak through her, setting her veins on fire. And even though his kiss centered on that one point, she felt echoes of ecstasy throughout her body, within her ears, at her other breast, between her legs.

  He groaned low in his chest. It was a sound of animal lust, aye, but also of adoration and yielding, an erotic sound that drove her to the brink of surrender. She let her head fall back, reveling in the glorious torment, never realizing her fingers, of their own accord, crept forward to tangle in his hair.

  Pagan felt as if he swirled in a storm-swollen river, utterly out of control, spinning recklessly away, farther and farther from shore. And yet he was neither capable nor desirous of swimming free.

  He’d kissed bosoms before, of women far more buxom than Deirdre. Breasts were one of God’s finest creations—soft and supple and delicious—and he worshipped them as much as any man. But never had that adoration had such an intense and dramatic effect upon him.

  A moan was torn from his throat as he suffered an agony of his own making. God, he wanted her. With every fiber of his being. His tongue had never tasted anything so sweet, and he feasted upon her flesh like a starving man set before a king’s table. His body shuddered with barely suppressed lust, and his cock throbbed insistently, demanding he bring it relief.